


Sherlollipops - You Can Never Have Too Many Second Chances

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another AU for Season 3, written after the pictures of Tom & Molly came out but before I saw any of the episodes. Sherlock is pouting, and John patiently discovers the reason before giving him really bad advice and sending him off to confess his feelings to Molly Hooper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - You Can Never Have Too Many Second Chances

Sherlock is curled up on the sofa in his rattiest dressing gown and pyjamas. John heaves an internal sigh as he takes in the sight of his best friend’s back; what, he wonders, has set him off this time?

He will admit, but only to himself, that he actually missed Sherlock’s sulks when he thought the man was dead – but then, he missed everything about the bloody man during those two years, even the things that drove him crazy before he jumped off that roof.

He sets down the bag of take-away and settles himself into his chair, this time allowing the sigh to escape his lips. “So? What is it this time? Bored? Cases Lestrade’s been lobbing at you since you got back not interesting enough? Or has Mycroft been at you again?”

Sherlock’s only response is to curl up even tighter, hunching his shoulders, the backs of his feet parallel to the edge of the leather sofa, and John is given to understand that this will take a bit of coaxing if he wishes to receive any kind of a response.

He considers just getting up, leaving Sherlock’s dinner on the coffee table and eating his own in the kitchen, but decides no, he’d rather prod at his flat-mate (at least, until John and Mary’s wedding in two months) until he gets some kind of a response from him. “Sherlock, the food’s going to get cold,” he says, as an opening gambit.

“Not hungry,” comes the mumbled – and expected – response.

“Fine, then I’ll put it in the fridge for later – unless you’ve got a severed head in there again, taking up shelf space?”

“No.” Sherlock’s response is mumbled even lower than his first two words, but he has responded and John is encouraged enough to continue the game of ‘drag the truth out of Sherlock’ he’s begun this evening.

“Right, then I’ll just put it away.” But he makes no move to rise from his seat, keeping his eyes trained steadily on the back of Sherlock’s head until the other man finally moves.

Twisting his head just enough to meet John’s gaze, Sherlock glares at him. “I thought you were going to the kitchen, John, not attempting to stare a hole through the back of my head. I am reliably informed that such activities are always fruitless.”

John grins at him, unfazed by the surly words. “Yeah, but I made you look, so that’s a win.” He drops the grin and leans forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his thighs and allowing his voice to become serious. “Really, mate, what’s wrong? I thought things were going well since you got back.”

That had been two weeks ago, and the expected – no, dreaded – media storm had finally died down as Prince George did something that seemed to take up more of the reporter’s attention than the returned-from-the-dead (and completely vindicated, oh the retractions the media’s had to print!) consulting detective. Sherlock had been, as John previously noted, inundated with cases from DI Lestrade, and Sherlock’s email had been virtually overflowing with requests from people begging him to take up their cases.

Sherlock’s face is once again toward the back of the sofa and his shoulders are hunched, but John is nothing if not patient, and so he waits.

Finally Sherlock spits out one word, so laden down with loathing it’s a wonder it can fit through his lips. “ _Tom._ ”

Try as he might, John comes up blank and is forced to ask. “Tom who?”

Sherlock rolls over on the sofa and gives John another glare. “Tom. Whitlock,” he says, forcing the words through his clenched teeth. “Molly Hooper’s…fiancé.”

Oho, so _that’s_ what this is about? John manages to hold back on the grin fighting its way free, schools his expression into one of innocence as he asks: “What about him? Finally met him, have you?”

Sherlock’s lip curls expressively. “Yes.”

John raises an eyebrow. “So? What’s wrong with him? Porn addict? Secret marriage? Gay? Drug dealer?” Then, greatly daring, “Psychopathic criminal mastermind?”

Sherlock’s scowl deepens, and it sounds as if the word is being forced out of him as he replies, “Nothing.”

John leans forward a bit more, cocking his head in Sherlock’s direction. “Sorry? What was that?”

Sherlock sits up abruptly, swinging his legs down and planting his feet on the floor, arms folded across his chest as he continues to scowl at his best friend. “I said, ‘nothing’, John, which you heard quite clearly. Don’t act like an idiot.”

He allows the grin to escape this time as he settles back in his chair, left leg crossed over his right knee and arms folded across his chest in imitation of Sherlock’s pose. Since his friend’s return, he’s noticed the other man is careful not to actually call anyone he is close to an idiot the way he used to; progress of a sorts that John intends to enjoy for as long as it may last. “Yeah, you’re right, sorry,” he says, his cheerful tone indicating that no, he actually isn’t sorry, but the social conventions, don’t you know. “So if there’s nothing wrong with him, then why are you having a sulk because of him?”

As if he doesn’t know. John had seen the look on Sherlock’s face when he first spied the engagement ring on Molly’s finger, a look of shock and discomfiture he’d quickly masked when Molly turned to see the two men standing in the door to her small office. She’d jumped up and hugged Sherlock, welcoming him back, her eyes darting toward John as if unsure what to say in his presence. The fact that she’d helped Sherlock fake his death – that she was the only one of Sherlock’s friends to be in a position to do so – had been disconcerting to learn, but John is not one to hold grudges for actions taken in the name of friendship, and was quick to reassure her.

That had been two days after Sherlock had interrupted his dinner with Mary – the dinner where he’d planned to propose to his then-girlfriend – with the announcement that he was alive but they were in danger and then the whole thing with Sebastian Moran had gone down, and then the media announcement Mycroft insisted on, and well…frankly, Molly Hooper has not been on John’s radar much.

However, it is abundantly clear that she has very much remained on Sherlock’s radar. John knows he is going to regret this – how can he not? – but he takes a deep breath and asks the question that is on his mind, bracing himself for the withering sarcasm such a question is certain to unleash. “Why does it bother you, there being nothing wrong with him?”

The withering glare arrives, right on schedule, but not the words John is expecting to hear, about how Molly’s sudden personal life is bound to impact her work with them or interfere with Sherlock’s ability to acquire illicit body parts on command. Instead, what comes out of his mouth causes John’s to gape open and remain that way for a long time after as his mind tries to process what his ears have heard. “Because I’ve realized I’m in love with Molly Hooper since right before I left, you idiot, why else?”

“That was…remarkably honest,” John says when his scattered wits have been regathered. “And completely…wait, did you tell her this?” he asks.

Sherlock shifts his eyes away from John’s and he understands this to be his answer – a resounding ‘no’. John swipes his hand down his face and groans. “Christ, Sherlock, why not? You know how she feels – felt – about you. Why didn’t you say something to her then? She would have waited…”

“Oh, yes, of course she would have,” Sherlock snaps, returning his icy gaze to meet John’s. “And what if, during my absence, one of Moriarty’s men had been killed me for real? Then where would she be, hmm? Having ‘saved herself’ for me, only to lose me again? I may not be very good at sentiment, John, but I do understand how much pain that would have caused her. I told her very specifically to get on with her life, that I had no idea when or even if I would ever be able to return, and she promised…well. To do exactly what she did,” he adds, sounding lost and disgruntled and terribly unhappy. A mix of emotions John would never, ever have predicted to hear in Sherlock’s voice.

“You should tell her.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his lips part in shock. John recognizes the expression, because it mirrors his own feelings at having said such a thing. But now that he’s said the words, he is determined to go on. “Tell her,” he urges Sherlock, once again leaning forward in his chair. “Don’t let it…don’t leave her unsure of you ever again, yeah? She deserves the truth. Even if all she can do is let you down gently – and we both know it’ll be gentle if it happens, cause she’s incapable of throwing your feelings back in your face in spite of all the times you hurt her in the past – even if that’s what happens, at least she’ll know. And you’ll both be able to get on with your lives.”

He knows it is terrible advice; the reality of such a conversation will more likely be to throw Molly into an emotional quandary, because one thing John is sure of is Molly’s deep and abiding love for Sherlock, in spite of her attempts to move on with Tom Whitlock. Oh, she loves him, John knows that as well, resigns himself to be a meddlesome busybody sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, but dammit, he wants his friend to be happy, as happy as he is with Mary.

So he doesn’t try to take the words back, although the impulse is there. If this backfires Molly will be rightfully angry with him for encouraging Sherlock to confess his feelings to her. And Tom Whitlock will certainly seek him out for a well-deserved punch in the face no matter what the outcome, but John just can’t find it in him to care, not right now. Not when he sees the tentative hope in his friend’s eyes.

Sherlock offers him a half-smile as he makes to rise from the sofa. “That’s…terrible advice, John. You do know that.”

John grins back at him with a rueful shake of his head. “Yeah, it is,” he agrees. “So. Are you going to take it?”

“You know, John, I do believe I will,” Sherlock replies, then he is heading for his room and John knows he will shower, shave, dress and be out the door and on his way to Molly’s flat in less than half an hour.

oOo

The knock at her door takes Molly by surprise; she is not expecting anyone to come by, and at this time of the evening most of her neighbors are eating dinner. She heads for the door, detouring from her intended destination – the kitchen, where she plans to put the kettle on – and steps up on the tips of her toes to peer through the peep.

It is Sherlock; even with his head turned away, she recognizes those dark curls instantly, and feels a thrill shoot through her. She counsels herself to calm down; if he is here, it is for a case, nothing else.

Besides, she is engaged and has no right to feel so giddy at the sight of another man at her door. A man who very specifically told her to pursue her own life and not wait for him. Who made it abundantly clear that, although she is someone he cares about and trusts, that is all she will ever be to him.

His actions since his return had only served to cement this belief in her heart, which continues to quietly grieve for the might-have-beens that in reality existed only in her mind. Tom is wonderful; he loves her, and she loves him and he is her future and Sherlock is only a friend and really, she needs to open the door before he knocks again!

She unlocks the door and opens it, managing what she hopes is a friendly, casual smile as she greets him. “Sherlock! Come in!”

As he steps into her flat she finds herself chattering nervously, in a way she hasn’t done in years. “Sorry about the mess, cleaning day’s tomorrow, even though today’s my day off I always do the cleaning on Saturday. Oh, is everything all right?” she remembers to ask as she closes the door behind her and leans against it nervously. “Is there a case, do you need me to go in to Bart’s?”

She is very conscious of her sloppy jeans and loose Rugby shirt and mismatched socks, staring at Sherlock, looking as put-together as always in his dark suit jacket and aubergine dress shirt and neatly-creased black trousers. His shoes are black and highly polished and his hair is a bit windblown, but really, that only enhances the effect he has on her, and she realizes with a plunging feeling that he still affects her as strongly as he ever has.

But she is engaged, dammit, to a man who loves her and whom she loves…and why does she need to keep reminding herself of that? “Is, is John coming, or waiting in the cab, or…”

“Molly, do shut up,” Sherlock snaps, then runs his hand through his hair and stammers – actually stammers! – out an immediate apology. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…I didn’t mean…dammit! This was a mistake…”

Molly moves up to stand in front of him, her eyes seeking out his as she lays a concerned hand on his arm. “Sherlock? What’s wrong? How can I help?

Perhaps he and John have been rowing, or a case is giving him troubles? Oh, surely nothing’s happened to his lovely landlady, Mrs. Hudson!

Before she can articulate any of these half-formed concerns, he mutters something that sounds like “oh fuck it” before leaning down and pressing his lips against hers.

Molly is frozen in place, as if some comic book villain has zapped her with a paralyzing beam or encased her in ice; she is barely breathing and her heart is beating a rapid and uneven tattoo in her chest and her eyes are wide and staring and her fingers are clenched, one hand digging into Sherlock’s arm, the other doing equal damage to her own palm and then she gasps, a deep shuddering breath and pulls Sherlock closer to her and kisses him back with a desperate intensity he seems to feel as well.

When the kiss ends, not long after the need to breathe makes itself known, Molly gasps again, and stares up at him. “Sherlock, what…”

“I love you,” he says, the words tumbling out quickly, almost frantically as he continues speaking. “I love you, I’ve been in love with you since right before…since that night, when I realized you counted…I just couldn’t make you wait, leave you with what might be false hope when I might never come back…and I know it’s terrible timing and you’re engaged but I couldn’t let you marry him without letting you know. You aren’t saying anything, why aren’t you saying anything?” he demands, without taking a breath. “Damn, I knew it, you don’t love me anymore, I’m an idiot, I’m so…”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Molly says fiercely, nearly shouting, but it shuts him up, which is what she wants at the moment. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry! Don’t you dare! I love you too, and yes, you’re an idiot, and yes, your timing is awful, but I’m glad you told me. I’ll never regret it. I’ll go see Tom tomorrow morning, first thing, and let him know it’s off. I won’t make him spend one more day believing a lie – well, it’s not entirely a lie, I really did think I loved him, and if you hadn’t said anything or kissed me I would have married him, you know that, right? I would even have been happy but nowhere near as happy as I am right now.”

She has run out of breath even if she hasn’t run out of words, but Sherlock’s lips are on hers again and his arms are around her and her hands have found their way into his curls and even though she is breaking another man’s heart, right at the moment she can’t bring herself to care. Not when she finally has the one thing she’s wanted for so very, very long: Sherlock’s love.

**Epilogue**

Tom takes it far better than Molly expects him to, even admitting that he knew their time together was drawing to an end as soon as he heard that Sherlock Holmes wasn’t dead after all. He is kind enough to wish her well as she returns the ring to him, and gently asks her not to contact him unless she requires the services of a barrister in the future. He will always be there for her in his professional capacity, but he hopes she understands that he is unwilling to be part of her life in any other way.

She cries as she leaves his flat and waves down a passing cab; she has never hurt anyone as deeply as she has hurt Tom, but it is the only way this was ever going to end. She is honest enough with herself to admit that; even if Sherlock had said nothing, hadn’t come to her flat last night and confessed his love, she and Tom would have eventually broken up because of him. Sherlock has always been first in her heart and always will be. And now she is content to know that she is first in his, as well.


End file.
